


First Bite

by futagogo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aged-Up Morty, Biting, Blood Drinking, First Kiss, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Santa, Submissive Morty, Vampire Rick, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 23:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13110312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futagogo/pseuds/futagogo
Summary: His puppy love for his grandfather had since grown into a loyal mutt—clumsy, eager to please, and blindly dedicated. Rick led and Morty followed obediently. He would follow Rick to the ends of the universe—he already had on several occasions, in fact—and no amount of vodka-tinged burps or snide comments about Morty being the oldest virgin in his class could drive him away for good.Not even when Rick came down with the flu—or at least an alien equivalent of it.





	First Bite

**Author's Note:**

> This is our Secret Santa gift to [mr.SEN](https://all-new-mr-sen.tumblr.com) :) The keywords we picked up from their prompt were "first time" "darker turn" and "kink," so we hope they are pleased with where we took this prompt.  
> It's also heavily inspired by [ghostygoo-girl](https://ghostygoo-girl.tumblr.com)'s delectable illustration of a [vampire Rick](https://the-dimension-where-rickmorty.tumblr.com/post/166862552622/congratulations-on-800-followers-if-youre-still) she did around Halloween. So we consider this two holiday celebrations in one! :D

The garage held a chill that betrayed the bitter Northwest winter outside. An unseasonably early frost had blanketed the front yard that morning—the first sign of what meteorologists were beefing up to be the next Snowmageddon—and the few leaves still clinging onto their limbs had been swiftly ripped off overnight to reveal broken-fingered trees down the street. Even with the garage door closed, Morty’s breath hung in a vapor cloud in front of his nose.

Crouched above the entrance to Rick’s subterranean lab, Morty rubbed his hands together, cupping them to his mouth as he considered his next move. Inlaid in the hatch’s stainless steel surface was a small window and a keypad. Blocky letters in neon blue looped skittishly across the digital screen:

INPUT CODE  EXCEPT FOR JERRY  FUCK OFF

Around and around it went, waiting for Morty’s offer. The small but effective security system was intended to keep the  _ rest _ of the Smith family from prying, especially after the last time Jerry had helped his dick to the Morphizer-XE.

Morty being Rick’s most (un)favorite grandchild, though, came with some perks, such as being the only Smith entrusted with the combination. Unfortunately, the same honorary title also came with having to fulfill bizarre tasks for the eccentric, old drunk: collecting phosphorous dust on a coral-choked planet, playing designated driver during another of Rick’s intergalactic benders, or simply scouring the local pet shops in search of—

He glanced at the plastic cooler by his knee and wrinkled his nose.

Even when under the weather, Rick’s tasks were no less demented. Why couldn’t it have been something safe like chicken soup or a jaunt to the pharmacy for lozenges? But no, Rick didn’t know the meaning of “safe.”

He had always been a dangerous man to work with, and Morty already had his fair share of unflattering scars and poorly healed bones to prove it. They laid out the roadmap of their adventures more effectively than the ship’s navigation logs.  _ Yeah, well, chicks dig—URP!—scars, _ Rick had insisted. Morty just thought they made him look old and rundown for a high school senior.

High school  _ senior. _

The reminder doused him in a cold bitterer than the chill that made his nose run. He wiped the back of his sleeve across it before smearing the mucus on his jeans cuff with a sigh.

Despite all the danger Rick put him through, miraculously Morty had survived up to the 12th grade. Next year would take him away to college, and while the idea of trading in death-defying adventures for safe albeit soul-sucking coursework had some advantages, there was another thought that countered it outright: no more Rick.

That sobering reality never failed to drag his heart down to drown in his belly acids, and he squirmed in place as an unpleasant cramp pinched his stomach. Adrenaline could be tricky like that. It was at once the life-saving chemical that sent him sprinting when B’luhd Panthers on Serba V were on his heels, and also made his heart pound at a scrap of praise from his alcoholic grandfather. A tingling, maddening itch inside his chest that was too often mistaken for just stress.

And Morty new exactly what caused him stress. Near-death experiences on planets he couldn’t even pronounce the names of? Check. Chronic bouts of insomnia? Check. Inappropriate feelings for his grandfather?

Morty swallowed and looked away, as though the hatch were reflecting his shameful thoughts on its shiny, chrome surface. Funny how giving a name to his dilemma didn’t actually make things any better.

It’d begun almost as soon as Rick had entered his life, giving him his first real male model to look up to—by heads and shoulders—and making Morty realize that he had a weakness for gray chin scruff, piercing eyes, and a baritone growl that dished out insults that could make a drill sergeant blush. The first time that voice rumbled long and low around his name, Morty was committed, all five-foot-two-inches of teenage gawkiness and puppy love. 

Now at a whopping five foot four inches, his puppy love for his grandfather had since grown into a loyal mutt—clumsy, eager to please, and blindly dedicated. Rick led and Morty followed obediently. He would follow Rick to the ends of the universe—he already had on several occasions, in fact—and no amount of vodka-tinged burps or snide comments about Morty being the oldest virgin in his class could drive him away for good.

Not even when Rick came down with the flu—or at least an alien equivalent of it. 

Rick had been cooped up in the lab, going on Day 5 now, and Morty’s separation anxiety was getting bad. With less than a year before his semi-permanent relocation across state to Spokane, every day mattered. His inventory of memories with Rick was quickly nearing its endpoint, so Morty was desperate to play the ever-willing accomplice to whatever Rick demanded if it meant spending one more minute with him. This was perfectly normal for a grandson to do with his grandfather, right? Get in all that good, old-fashioned bonding time?

That was what he had thought their last off-planet adventure together would offer. Outings had been few and far in between, Morty busy with college searches and Rick—well, Rick just being his usual apathetic self. Time out of the daily grind was supposed to help them reconnect, assure Morty that things were still the same. Just the two of them, Rick and Morty against the universe.

 Instead, Morty had found himself playing the ship’s seat warmer, while Rick indulged himself a private “rendezvous” with the local tribe’s esteemed leader. He had specifically used that word— _ rendezvous. _

He was now cupping and rubbing his hands over his knuckles, first one then the other, partly out of cold and partly out of unease.

A lot of things about the trip to Aura gave Morty a sense of unease. The first thing that stood out about it was the slate-gray of the planet's craggy landscape. Its inhabitants were almost a perfect match. Ghostly pale skin and bitch-black eyes on an otherwise familiar humanoid figure reminded Morty of something from a horror film.

Despite their imposing appearance, however, the Aurians were a hospitable people, immediately ushering their guests to their shamanic priestess with whom Rick had his meeting, or  _ rendezvous, _ or date. Or whatever. Tall and slender, the alien priestess imbued a grace that made Morty feel like a stumbling ape by comparison. She didn’t walk so much as glide wherever she went, every movement silky and precise. According to Rick, the Aurian were a long-lived people, often aging into the hundreds. It was impossible to tell how old the priestess was, as her skin was taught and blemish-free across her high cheek bones, and there was a vivid interest alight in her eyes.

Those eyes had regarded Morty with something like amusement, saying only “This is he?” before Rick quickly intercepted with a too-harsh laugh. The priestess was creepy, no doubt about it, but undeniably beautiful. And if Morty noticed it, then Rick did too. Morty hadn’t missed the look of anticipation in Rick’s eyes as his hand found itself easily at home on the small of her back. They exchanged cryptic whispers, like lovers on a tryst, before disappearing into her private chambers with a swish of the beaded curtain.

That memory didn’t sit well with Morty, and another squeeze made his chest ache.

Rick had never revealed what exactly had transpired; all Morty knew was that afterward, Rick had lumbered into the ship with a sharper tongue than when they’d landed. He had looked shaken and slightly pale, and the blood-or-lipstick on his collar had Morty diverting his eyes from him for the rest of the trip home. Asking about how Rick’s “meeting” had gone only garnered him a short “it’s done” with no further explanation.

The moment they’d parked the ship, Rick disappeared into his lab with hardly a backward glance, and there he would end up staying for the remainder of the week. He refused to leave, even for mealtimes, claiming that he’d come down with a nasty sickness he’d picked up on Aura.  _ Porfire _ or  _ porphyria  _ or something. It sounded bad, either way. And if Morty wanted to be of some goddamn help, he could just shut his yap and get him what he freaking needed. 

Thus Morty was crouched in the garage, nose going red with the cold, and a cooler-ful of yuck by his side.

Morty eyed the keypad again then checked his phone, bringing up the messaging app. Rick changed the lab’s entry code on a pretty regular basis for added security, the seven-segment numbers usually some sort of subtle reference to his current mood or flavor of humor for the day. For the longest time, it had been 0508—the blocky digits a quiet jab to Jerry and his insistent prying. When Rick was feeling festive, it’d be 0404, or a classic 8008 when he was being particularly childish. For the past few days, the code had remained steadfastly on a dismal message:

Morty [sent 3 days ago]: How’s it going?

Rick [sent 2 days ago]: From here it’s all down

Morty blinked at Rick’s final message then at the panel. He tilted his head to look at the keypad upside down as he carefully punched in the code:

7-7-1-4

_ It’s all downhill, _ he repeated the now completed message to himself. _ Poor guy. _

There was a loud clunk from somewhere inside the floor, and the entrance fractured into radial pieces that folded away like the shutter of a camera. Track lights leading into the abyss lit up on both rails of the metal ladder. A vertical runway to hell.

Immediately, a thick cloud of heat belched from the opening, and Morty startled back with a grunt. He nearly gagged at the stench of something having gone overripe, and he held the back of his arm across his nose as he squinted into the steam cloud. It lifted from the opening of the hatch like it were the mouth of a giant coffee cup, giving off a moist heat that left Morty’s cheeks clammy.

Once it dissipated into the cool early-December air, he scrambled back onto his feet and patted down his knees. Hefting the unwieldy cooler under one arm, Morty then began the precarious descent down into the darkness.

“Rick?” he called out when he had a few rungs left on the ladder. There was no answer. The laboratory lights had been set low—Rick said that light sensitivity was one of the symptoms of his illness—and the column of sunlight cascading down from the open hatch was like a God-gifted spotlight. All that was missing was an angelic choir. Morty peered into the dim and was able to make out the shapes of Rick’s imaginative array of equipment that dotted the massive subterranean lab.

Strange machinery stood like hulking black beasts in the gloom, an empty workstation on one side, and a ratty couch squatting in the center. It was a dingy, busted-up old thing. A relic from mom’s early marriage years that was made more comfortable with every line that creased its soft, black leather surface. Once his eyes adjusted, Morty could make out the couch’s inhabitant by the mop of gray hair peeking out from beneath a thick blanket. He was nothing more than a lumpy stone that shifted with the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. 

“Jeez, Rick. There you are.” Morty jumped the last two rungs to land on the cement with a scuff of rubber. “For a second there, I was wondering if you—” He’d just taken a step forward when his foot struck a ceramic plate on the floor, the cutlery clattering loudly in the morgue-like lair. He looked down and blinked at the remains on the plate.

It was the dinner he’d brought for Rick days ago, completely untouched. Now it resembled more of an overactive Petri dish than Mom’s famous turkey wreath.

Morty made a disgusted sound as he toed the dinner plate again, nudging it aside. “Aw, man. Rick. Y-you’re still not eating?” he asked, eyes down.

“Did you—did you bring them?” The voice was so quiet, Morty almost missed it entirely. It rasped into his ears like wind-stroked reeds—ancient somehow—and made an inexplicable shiver run up his spine. 

When Morty glanced up, Rick was suddenly standing in front of him, still shrouded in his blanket. He loomed over him like a monolith. In a matter of seconds, Rick had somehow managed to make it all the way over from the couch without a sound, and he now stood just outside the ring of light, waiting.

“O-oh! Oh, yeah. Yeah, I got ‘em right here.” Morty tapped the lid of the cooler and took a step forward.

“Stay there!” Rick barked. He raised one hand from beneath his blanket, his arm cutting through the light like a fang and stopping Morty in his tracks. Rick was already a pretty pale guy, but his arm looked like it’d been made from paper, nearly translucent where it shifted over the sinewy muscles of his forearm. But what caught Morty’s eye was the series of round puncture marks that dotted his flesh in strange pairs. They were nearly perfect circles and blackened like cigarette burns. 

“Rick, what happened to your—”

“Just stay there, Morty. I-I don’t need you catching my—it’s just safer there. Trust me,” he croaked, turning over his arm and offering his palm to Morty. “Now, give it.”

Concern pinching his brow, Morty surrendered the cooler to Rick, dropping the square handle into his grip, which Rick immediately tugged back into the darkness with him. In a flash, he crouched over it and popped open the lid. He froze.

“Morty. What was it I told you to get?”

Morty shifted in place, not looking at the open cooler and what lay inside. “Five of them, j-just like you asked. I still don’t see what you need with—” 

“Five  _ live _ rats! Not dead ones!” Rick suddenly roared. **_"Live!"_** His shoulders hitched upwards, hands curled into claws as he hefted the container and chucked it in Morty’s direction. Its cumbersome design sent the cooler tumbling off target, and its contents spilled out in a dice roll of wet fur and naked tails. Morty yelped and raised his arm in defense even as a large white male rat smacked him in the chest before it splattered on top of his shoe.

“Jesus Christ, Rick!” He pressed his back against the ladder and shook his foot free of the carcass. “Th-that’s all they had! I swear!” 

“I ask you for  _ one _ thing, Morty! One thing!!” Rick had begun pacing, his cover secured in place with one hand while he gesticulated manically with the other. “D-d-do you even have a single brain cell in that fucking head of yours?” Even with his face still cast in shadow, Morty could hear the words seething out from around a scowl.

Morty sniffled, hoping it would come off as just a symptom of the weather’s chill, his gaze still fixed on the rats. Sitting in the open cooler for the past few hours had thawed out the chunks of dead flesh and they were lying in small puddles on the laboratory's floor. They wavered in the puddles that now welled up in Morty’s eyes.

Great. Now he was grossed out  _ and _ crying.

This was not the warm welcome he had been anticipating. He’d just spent all morning plowing through the local pet shops with one fucked-up grocery list, and this was the thanks he got? Rick’s sting was another painful reminder of the rift that was steadfastly chasming between them. He could feel the distance yawning wider with each day, despite Morty’s best efforts to remain Rick’s faithful sidekick. Because if he didn’t even have that, then what would he have left?

They were supposed to be a team, and that was all Morty wanted. Actually, Morty wanted much more than that, but to admit that would spell the end.  _ What was it they said? Shoot for the moon, and you’ll land among the stars? _

He sniffed again, more loudly this time, like it were more of an impertinent scoff than trying to hold back tears. “Yeah, well, w-what do you need live rats for anyway? That’s just—ah!” His act was abruptly cut short as he was shoved bodily against the ladder, one hand pinned to a rung above his head. He barely had a moment to breathe before Rick’s nose was tucked into the cradle of his neck.

The metal ladder dug into his back, but it was the touch of Rick’s skin that made Morty gasp. Rick was freezing. His fingers like icicles around his wrist, his nose a chilled dagger where it pressed against his racing jugular. Dampness betrayed the fever sweat that dripped down Rick’s neck, visible now with the blanket abandoned behind him, and a breath like fire set Morty’s skin aflame. Rick was burning up.

“R-Rick?” Morty twisted his hand in Rick’s grip, but Rick only pressed in harder, the long, slim length of him boxing Morty in and making his breath catch in his throat. That was definitely what kept him from telling Rick to get the fuck off of him, right? It wasn’t that a part of him—a very pent-up, hard part of him—wanted this to happen, wanted it so much worse than in his fantasies now that it was actually happening, and Rick’s flesh against his was realer than real. 

Besides, Morty couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to, because right now Rick was doing the talking, and Morty had long since been conditioned to just shut up and listen. It was one of his favorite things to do.

Rick was currently muttering into his clavicle, his words little more than a rumble, fast and low to match the  _ thump-thump-thump _ of Morty’s heart. At least something of them was in harmony. “It was supposed to be simple, Morty,” he said. “It was supposed to keep you  _ safe, _ goddamnit! But you couldn’t even do that right.” He inhaled deeply then shuddered out a sigh, his open lips catching on Morty's goose-pimpled neck as he curled in closer. “You  _ like _ making this so fucking hard for me—fuck, you don’t even know what I could do.” With his mouth pressed up as it was to Morty's neck, Morty almost missed the last two muttered words that followed. “To you.”

And then what happened next might have just been Morty’s imagination—after all, nothing seemed to be real at the moment—but it almost seemed like Rick rolled his hips forward with those last words.

There, he felt it.

Now Morty was thankful that Rick’s face was nestled against his neck, as blood simultaneously rushed to his cheeks and groin. His stomach turned into a Gordian knot, and he worked his mouth like a beached fish, an apology forming on his mind’s tongue even though there was no reason to apologize.

Then, just as quickly as it’d begun, it was over. Rick pushed away from him in a huff, ducking his head and leaving Morty to pant in his wake. Had Rick seen it? Had he felt it too? The distance between them had been compressed down to an electron’s field in an instant. Morty felt charged with an energy akin to electricity, making him want to do something wild and unbridled. This was it. Rick had given off all the signals he'd always only dreamed off. Now to just open his mouth, say the words, and— 

“Go,” Rick hissed, his voice rough around the edges. He scooped the blanket off the floor and wrapped it around himself. It unfurled like a cloak through the air before hugging him tight and reducing him to this formless ghoul again. His back was an impenetrable wall as he retreated into the darkness. “Before you make it any worse.”

The words cleaved Morty straight through his gut and into his heart. He was certain his legs would give out on him, he was shaking so badly. “I—” he started feebly, but nothing followed. His hands were clammy where they gripped the ladder. What else could he possibly say?  _ I fucked up. I  _ am _ fucked up. _ His throat clamped down on itself, and before he could say or do anything to make it worse, he scrambled back up the ladder towards daylight.

~~*~~ 

Sleep didn’t find Morty that night, but the wolf within him did.

It had found him before he’d even thrown himself into his room and fumbled the lock behind him. Well before he’d wrestled off his pants and briefs to grip his erection. If he were being completely honest, Morty would say that the wolf had its hold on him since the day he’d met Rick and felt its first rumbling growl come from within himself. The long days of running by Rick’s side, the air crackling with danger and adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, had shaped his boyhood puppy love into something more dangerous than a devoted hound. At nights, his deepest desires bayed at him like a wolf—frenzied and irrational. And when a wolf smelled prey, it did what wolves do best.

It bared its fangs and bit.

His briefs were barely to his knees before Morty flopped into bed, one arm wrapping tight around his pillow while the other fisted his cock. He crushed the pillow to himself, imagining it was Rick’s broad chest once again pressed up against his own. 

Over the past several years, he’d amassed a fair amount of fodder to jack off to—the occasional brush of skin on skin, a peek at Rick in the nude during decidedly _un_ erotic circumstances, even a wily glance caught across the dinner table. Morty was very well-versed at twisting every interaction into something self-serving, but so far they had all been so  _ one-sided. _ Rick had never given any inkling that he had looked at Morty with anything more than contempt or tense impatience.

But now...

Morty choked down a moan, his cock branding his palm with its heat, as he relived the memory. He wanted to prolong that moment, play it again and again like a skin flick in his own private theater: Rick’s peppery sweat-musk as he drew close to him. The heat and chill of Rick’s hands where he clung to him, lifeline and anchor in one. Rick’s bony hip stabbing into his own.

And that wasn’t the only thing that had stabbed.

There was no mistaking it. He’d felt Rick’s hardness against his stomach when he’d rolled his hips with his threat:

_ What I could do to you. _

Rick had said it like it held potential. Like it was a promise. And oh, Morty was more than ready to take him up on it, if Rick would just make the offer. 

As Morty wrapped his hand around his tip and unwound the fantasy, breathed new life into it, the fleeting seconds he’d spent pinned beneath Rick’s weight stretched into something much more intimate. Rick’s rolling hips fell into a regular rhythm now. Instead of the strange utterings of a madman, words of affection dripped from his lips.

_ Oh, what I’ll do to you, Morty. _

In his mind, Rick’s voice was velvet-soft and warm. It smoothed like a salve down his cock. With a sigh, Morty followed the lilt of his own name in that resonant silk, pressing his overheated cheek into his pillow as his hand mirrored the cadence. Down and down it went.

Morty writhed as his hands became Rick’s hands, one thumbing his slit while the other eased down his shaft to cup his balls. He imagined Rick’s longer fingers caressing him, tiptoeing closer to his perineum, emboldened to venture further than he would on his own. Precum pearled his tip as he trembled with need.

He could practically feel Rick’s breath on his neck again, this time the drag of his lips more pronounced, pushing closer. Rick’s teeth scraping his flesh. Though sweat beaded his temple, Morty shivered in anticipation of the bite. It always came when the wolf had him in its grip. Only too eager to surrender himself to it, Morty keened and threw back his head onto the mattress.

His hand raced along his cock as the fantasy rushed on.

Now Rick’s lips were on him, sucking lewdly, just like the slick of precum that squelched between Morty’s fingers as he pumped feverishly. From deep in his throat, Morty mewled.

This. This was what the wolf did to him, reducing him to this quaking slave of vulnerability and submission. Normal people wanted to be desired, wanted.

He imagined Rick’s lips locking onto his neck, the points of his canines pressing twin divots into his flesh. 

But Morty was anything but normal. He wanted to be dominated.

When Rick’s teeth finally pierced him with a wet pop, Morty came.

~~*~~

Rick [sent 1 minute ago]: Join me in my own personal

The moment the message appeared on his screen, Morty’s legs were already leading him back to the underground lab.

7-7-3-4

It was as telling an invitation if Morty ever saw one. It couldn’t have been any clearer than if Rick had asked Morty to elope with him. Either Rick was openly admitting what had passed between them, recognizing that it was wrong and twisted and most certainly dooming him to eternal damnation—and inviting Morty to join him. Or his health had simply taken a turn for the worse.

There was only one way to find out.

This time when Morty was halfway down the ladder, the opening overhead irised shut with a squeal of sliding metal. Morty paused only for a moment before descending the rest of the way, feeling his way through the darkness on familiarity alone. Although he’d taken the same trek countless times before and knew the exact number of rungs, his descent was slow going, every step ponderous.

“O-okay—” His voice was too broken to continue, so he started over again. “Okay, Rick. I’m here.” At the bottom of the ladder, he paused, his eyes darting about the room, surprised to see the lab’s emergency lights suddenly flicker to life. Strips of lighting recessed into the floor and walls cast everything in a green glow, fitting for a sci-fi laboratory but eerie nonetheless. The air was still warm, though more bearable than last time, and the smell of rot had been replaced with the unfeeling scent of machines, metallic and sharp.

“See you got my message, Morty.”

Morty turned to the source of the voice, his eyes adjusting to the dim to make out the couch in the center of this emerald city. And no emerald city would be complete withouts its resident wizard. The sight of him made Morty give an involuntary gasp.

One arm draped behind his head, legs propped up and spread wide like some debauched fashion model on the beat-up couch, Rick eyed him cooly through half-lidded eyes. Behind him, emergency track lighting turned particulates in the air into alien motes, and Rick’s usually sharp features were thrown into greater contrast beneath the glow. He was nothing like the huddled, pathetic thing from before, pinning Morty with a stare powerful enough to draw him in from across the room.

“You didn't waste any time figuring out my code this time. The offer still stands, you know,” Rick said as Morty approached like a timid rabbit before a fox—or perhaps wolf. That rasp was still in Rick’s voice, but it was deeper now. Sultry even. Morty swallowed as a shiver ran down his spine and straight to his groin.

For some reason, Morty couldn’t speak, his mouth falling open and then shutting again without forming words. He found himself transfixed by the sight of Rick on the couch, the very epitome of confidence and control. There was more than a hint of sensuality in Rick’s demeanor, and Morty had the distinct feeling that Rick was, in fact, putting himself on display for him.

Not one to turn down such a generous gift, Morty stared agape, taking in Rick’s long torso and even longer limbs. He had always seen Rick as stringy and strung out, old flesh hanging in thin folds from his meager frame. But now his shirt was clinging to muscle Morty was sure hadn’t been there before. Pecs, the kind Morty could only dream of, molded his shirt as intercostals rippled down the sides of his sweater. And then his eyes fell on the strange, dark stain that bibbed Rick’s sweater. He jerked back as though struck, the metallic scent in the air suddenly revealing itself for what it was.

It was the smell of scraped knees and nose bleeds, fresh road kill and the butcher block.

_ Blood. _

Now the uneven shadows across Rick’s face and neck took on an ominous tone as Morty’s eyes picked up the tell-tale streaks of dried blood. Stale streams of red framed Rick’s upturned lips, giving him the look of a macabre ventriloquist’s dummy. His elbows and knees were patched with blood like he’d been crawling through a puddle of it.

Morty could feel gorge roiling at the base of his esophagus, and he pointed a shaking finger at Rick. His voice was tight as he wheezed, “Rick...what happened?”

Entertained by Morty’s reaction, Rick grinned wider, and he placed one splayed hand on the center of his chest. “What, this? Best thing I’ve done all week. Don’t know why I didn’t think of doing it sooner.” A long tongue swiped out to lick over his own lips and trace the edge of his left canine. Morty stared at the large fang, made malachite in the light. If Rick noticed Morty's unabashed staring, it evidently didn't bother him.

He was still talking.

“They really took the  _ edge _ off, if you know what I mean. The human body can go without food for only so long—but _this._ ” He gestured to himself, his hand sweeping down the center of his chest and torso. Morty’s eyes followed its trek closely, and he swallowed again, even though his mouth had gone dry, as Rick’s hand lingered on the obvious heft in his pants. Rick chuckled at Morty’s stare. “This, I finally figured out what  _ it _ wants.”

“What it w-wants?” Morty echoed.

Rick hummed in agreement. “Doesn’t work when I do it to myself, though.” he said, rolling back his sleeve to pout at the small semicolons that dotted his forearm. “Does squat-diddly. And tastes like pickled liver.” He then gave a mighty yawn, canines glinting in the accent lighting, and stretched his arms overhead. He arched back over the arm rest so that his sweater untucked from his pants and rode up to reveal a toned midsection framed by piercing hip bones. “The rats didn’t taste much better either.”

Morty was too busy gawking to fully register what he had just said, as Rick stretched further until he was folded completely over the couch’s arm, and still going. His long arms reached the floor as he practically oozed over the edge. Liquid sex. Graceful as an acrobat, he braced himself on his fingertips as he did an effortless backward walkover, legs like reverse pendulums as they arched up and over and back down again. Then he was standing next to the couch, running a finger along its battered leather surface as he eyed Morty.

“But that’s where I need you to help me out, Morty.”

“H-help you out?” Morty realized then that he was very good at parroting everything Rick said and not very good at coming up with anything original. He shook his head, taking a step back both physically and figuratively. “Wait. What did you say about the—the...rats?” The word was pushed out of Morty, barely more than a breath, as Rick suddenly appeared before him, tall and imposing...and undeniably sexy. 

“They were just the first step, Morty,” Rick purred, circling Morty slowly, one long leg swinging out in front of the other, hands behind his back. He looked impish like this, like he had a secret he was just itching to tell Morty. Without even needing to lay a finger on Morty, he’d managed to corral him back in the direction of the couch again. “The bitch said there’d be a price to pay for their so-called Stripling Effect. Then again, ya can’t expect to gain a superhuman life span without giving up a little something—” He paused to wipe a thumb pad of blood off his cheek and into his mouth. His eyes rolled up as his eyelids fluttered. “— _human_.”

Too entranced by the shimmer of Rick’s red tongue as it rolled around his digit, Morty only gasped when the back of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He went straight down onto it with a puff of air wheezing out from its weathered cushions.

His legs fell open, and Rick quickly made himself at home between them, one knee resting on the cushion and pressing cozily against Morty’s blatant erection. For a moment, neither moved, Morty still pinned to the cushion with his grandfather poised above him with a look that spoke of hunger and desire.

When another second passed and Morty still hadn’t moved, Rick cocked his head, eyebrow quirked. “Morty. Kiddo. This is the part where you make your move.” He chuckled and nuzzled his nose into Morty’s hair. “After all, this is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

Still as a statue, Morty’s mind was running a mile a minute. Even more shocking than Rick coming onto him like this was the fact that— _He knew? Rick knew!_ He threw his hands up to cover his face, as though he could somehow hide himself in plain sight.

“Of course I knew,” Rick chuckled, as though hearing the words right out of Morty’s head. He took Morty’s wrists and gently lowered them from his face. “You’re not exactly the master of subtlety, kid. Christ, how long you been holding this torch for me, hm? Three years? Four?” He then pressed a kiss to Morty’s forehead. “You’re tenacious. I’ll give you that.”

The kiss worked like a spell, letting Morty finally succumb to the fear that gripped him. Giving in was always much easier than fighting it. It didn’t feel like giving up, however. It felt more like entrusting himself to some higher force. He had already done it for so much of his life, it only felt natural to bow to Rick’s control.

This really was what Morty had wanted—even if this wasn’t the setting or dialogue he’d imagined. But the facts still remained: Rick had known all about his sinful urges and wasn’t disgusted by them. He wasn’t turning Morty away but was instead turning towards him, welcoming him into his fold.

His mind finally clear yet remote, he was able to speak. “You knew but didn’t—why didn’t you say anything?”

Rick made an incredulous face. “What good would that do? For either of us? Let’s not kid ourselves, Morty. You’re just starting your life, and I-I’ve got one foot in grave.” He blinked rapidly looking off to the side and then added with a wry smile. “Or I used to. Humans live such a short time, Morty. It wouldn’t have been fair to you otherwise. That’s why I did...what I did.”

“Did what?” But Rick was still kissing a trail down his temple and across his cheek. He lifted his shaky hands to grip Rick’s lapels. “What did you do?” His voice was thick with unshed tears, equal parts fear and elation making him tremble. He already had a sense of what Rick was implying. The stage had been set the moment they stepped foot on Aura, and whatever had transpired there had taken his Rick and turned him into something else.

He was no longer just a man. Morty could see it in the predatory gaze, in the stench of blood that clung to his breath. He had traded in what he was to ensure they could be together without time as their enemy. The transformation meant an irreversible shift in their relationship, and Morty was as terrified as he was excited by it. For always wanting things to stay the same, it turned out that the answer to their future was in change.

“What I did isn't important, Morty,” Rick whispered, turning upward to kiss his eyelids. “Just know that now we can be together. If you’ll join.” He was practically glowing as he placed a slender finger beneath Morty’s chin and gently lifted. 

Morty’s hands still clenched in Rick’s lapels didn’t pull so much as guide him down, passive dead weights that lowered him to his level so that their noses touched. As if his gesture weren’t response enough, he answered with a shiver, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Rick breathed in deeply through his nose, nostrils flared. “Mmm. Good. Now keep doing that,” he murmured, eyes sliding shut. There was the start to a growl edging Rick’s words.

“D-doing what?” It squeaked out of Morty, impossible to hear over the thundering of their hearts in that tight space. The answer was irrelevant, however, because Rick was so close, his breath on Morty’s lips, his hands coming to cup his face.

“Fearing me.” Then his lips were smashed against Morty’s so hard that Morty was pressed into the cushion back behind him. He’d barely given Morty time to process what was happening before he’d shoved his tongue into Morty’s mouth, all too desperate to taste him.

Morty gave a shaky attempt to return the gesture and was rewarded for his inexperience by nicking his tongue along the sharp point of one of Rick’s canines. He yelped around the pain, but Rick just drew tighter, clamping onto Morty’s bleeding tongue to suck hungrily. A lavish sigh shuddered out of Rick’s open mouth as he swallowed, then he pulled back to take in Morty’s bright-red lips and heaving chest.

“Yesss,” Rick hissed appreciatively. “This will work wonderfully.”

The loss of blood made Morty’s head spin. Just that and not the rush of love that billowed up like a fire in his chest. And he pieced together the flimsy thought of  _ Yes, I could get used to this, _ as Rick curled in again to feed properly this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry we won't be continuing this one-shot, but if you would like to see a longer work of ours, [The Citadel of Lost Children](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6286300) is almost done as we will be going back to finishing that up. :)


End file.
